New Arrival in Town Pulls Up Welcome Mat--for Now

We wanted them to come.

With our friends and family scattered about the country, we figured they would like to visit us in our new apartment here. After all, the place has a pool, a rooftop view of the Santa Monica Mountains and easy access to all the tourist traps. And you can walk to the shops and restaurants on Ventura Boulevard.

We rented a place with an extra bedroom and bathroom so our out-of-town friends could feel at home. We stocked the guest quarters with fluffy seashell towels, clean sheets and sea breeze-scented soaps.

We thought our friends would like to visit. We just didn’t count on how much.

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I moved from St. Louis to the Valley two months ago; my fiance, Tom, arrived in March.

So far, we’ve had more guests during one month in L.A. than one year in St. Louis.

They’ve flown in from Missouri, Hawaii and North Carolina, family members and close friends eager to explore the Valley and its attractions--the studio tours at Universal, Warner Bros. and NBC, sitcom screenings, “The Tonight Show with Jay Leno,” famous shopping malls and eateries.

Places Tom and I had never been.

It’s hard entertaining when we’re as clueless about the Valley as our guests, some of whom had never been to Los Angeles.

Born and raised in south St. Louis, Tom has an excuse.

Born and raised in Los Angeles, it’s hard to explain to visitors that I’m a lousy tour guide because I’m unfamiliar with a large chunk of the city.

I grew up primarily in the South Bay, my world bounded by the San Diego Freeway to the east, the ocean to the west, the Palos Verdes Peninsula to the south and the Santa Monica Mountains to the north.

The Valley was a place I heard about in Tom Petty songs, a place that made headlines for heat, earthquakes and its peculiar lingo. A place so distant in my mind, it didn’t even seem like a part of Los Angeles.

Plus, I’ve been out of state for the past decade. I went to college in upstate New York and, except for some brief stays in Southern California, worked in Utah, Las Vegas and St. Louis.

For the past 3 1/2 years, I’ve been in a St. Louis mind-set. It was the one place, since I’ve been out on my own, that has felt like home. That’s where I met Tom, who can make me laugh, no matter how sad or mad I am, just by dancing The Elaine (from “Seinfeld”).

We wore red at Cardinals games and went crazy when Mark McGwire hit home run No. 70. We danced under the Arch and rode our bikes past the Anheuser-Busch brewery, which saturates the south side of the city with the lingering smell of beer. During humid summers, we waited in long lines for Ted Drewes frozen custard, which is like ice cream, only creamier and more fattening.

The call to come back to L.A. was unexpected, with an opportunity to work at the paper that had made me want to be a journalist.

As happy as I was in St. Louis, I missed my family in L.A. The walks with my dad along the Strand in Manhattan Beach. The backyard gatherings at my Aunt Elaine’s home in the San Gabriel Valley, where dozens of aunts, uncles and cousins sat barefoot on the patio, catching up on which cousin graduated, which one got married, which one had a baby.

I missed the warm California sunshine, and the ease of being a vegetarian without having to explain it to Midwesterners who believe that all meals center around meat.

Tom was excited too. He had always wanted to live somewhere he could play golf year round, and in a city with a lot of big-time sports teams.

So L.A. was perfect.

But coming back was also nerve-racking.

Tom quit a job he enjoyed to look in a city he had only visited twice. For me, there was the challenge of adjusting to a new job.

And one other thing: We get married in a week.

“At least you know L.A.,” people said to me when they learned that Tom and I would be tackling life’s major stresses at once.

Yes and no. I know the part of L.A. that I grew up in. I don’t know the Valley, which is roughly equivalent in size to Philadelphia.

I feel like I have moved to a new city.

I’ve tried to warn our guests, explaining that I don’t know the Valley well and I haven’t had time to explore because of the new job and wedding.

“But didn’t you grow up there?”

I understand their puzzled expressions. Los Angeles is too big to fully comprehend. I also can’t blame them for asking:

What’s Universal Studios like?

Where’s a fun place to go on a Friday night?

What’s a good restaurant to eat at?

Why is Jerry’s Famous Deli famous?

How do you get to Burbank?

Don’t know, don’t know, don’t know, don’t know, let me look at a map.

Not that there’s been time to look on a map. I’ve had pictures to hang, wedding invitations to address, income taxes to file, DMV hassles to worry about, florists and a string quartet to call, articles to research, bridesmaids’ gifts to buy, people to appease, bills to pay, letters to write, laundry, dishes, and a cat to feed.

Suddenly, I found myself wishing for a weekend of peace and quiet, of nowhere to go and nothing to do.

But then, the familiar call came on a busy Monday afternoon, just hours after we had said goodbye to yet another round of visitors.

It was from a close friend who lived out of town and wanted to stay with us for the weekend.

Sure, I said. But please, make it after the wedding.